I just quit my job! Irresponsible or awesome? Quite possibly the former. Right now however, it is feeling pretty darn awesome!
My poor, patient employer. I fannied around for two weeks playing with the idea of giving in my notice as though it were a hot potato. Extremely delicious but pipingly hot to touch. So I threw it around a bit…bringing up the idea of leaving in a Terribly Serious tone, then finding it all too hot and scary and throwing the potato back in a panic. The Potato of freelance freedom, in the end I bit the bullet and left today!
The Potato of Happiness
It looks like we are rolling with this metaphor! Why did the Potato come into my life in the first place? Well to be honest, it never really left! I have always been a work-shy, commitment phobic and irresponsible wreckhead. At school it saw me scribbling my classmates homework just before class (Deborah Henwood, forever thank you). As a teenager I had fanciful flings but ran a mile if I thought someone liked me back. In my adult life I opted for a career out of the office and spent much of my working time in Barcelona merrily pedalling a rickshaw taxi up and down the beach.
What happened to the Potato you may ask? It sounds quite happy? The freelance side of me was always happy meandering from job to job. I’ve really worked my way through the A-Z of potential careers. Translator, writer. “Community Manager” quite recently.
The A-Z of my Career
My first every job was a waitress. I was so bad I was actually banned from waiting. Would that make me a “Go”ress? I messed up so many orders, successfully dropped a pizza on one poor diners blowdried hair, and in the end I was only allowed to lay the tables, and on special occasions, bring out the occasional dessert. I loved it! When I left that restaurant to further my career across the Atlantic, the reference they gave me was “Worst Waitress in Cushendall”. I wore it like a badge of honour.
Later, I recruited for a modelling agency. For a billionaire Russian who needed beautiful ladies. (It was legit. I think). Where does one find models? Good question! In Barcelona, a popular watering hole is the “Wet Deck” pool parties at the W Hotel on the beach. I would go there (normally on rollerblades and in ripped shorts rocking my “I am a teenager in my 20s” look) and lurk by the bathrooms getting pretty girls numbers. Really! It was surprisingly easy when you can (honestly) promise them a chance with a modelling agency. My guy friends were extremely jealous.
Then my life changed pretty drastically. I got pregnant! Time to get serious. I thought. Let my glittering career that began in Upstairs at Joe’s Restaurant and reached its peak as Chief Glowstick Seller in the nightclubs of Leeds be taken to even greater heights! Time to bring home more meat to the cave now a cub was on the way. Thus began my teaching career.
This was great, for the first time in my life it was a pretty sizeable salary. The same amount, every month – bliss! I taught English as a foreign language in a small academy, to children between 3 and 18 years old. The three-year-olds were terrifying, I had no control. They walked all over me like tiny dictator dwarves and spent the lesson with their bums pressed to the windowpane, “mooning” their parents waiting below.
The teenagers were great. We would play Simon Says and they would beg me to end the lesson with Hangman. I made up a game where I divided the class into two rival teams and they would have to compete to draw the ugliest and scariest monster on the board, by shouting instructions (in English, hence Highly Educational) at me while I enthusiastically doodled on the blackboard.
Trans World Idiomas was in Premia de Mar, a beautiful town right on the Mediterranean Sea about an hour on the train from Barcelona. At first, I would get the train from Clot station in Barcelona. I would leave my lesson planning until the journey, figuring that an hours commute was plenty of time, and my now pretty sizeable bump would bag me a free seat. It never did. I arched my back and pointed my baby bump in every direction, but most people averted their eyes and I would stand. Grumpily scribbling into a book pressed against the train door.
The Rust Bucket
Soon after starting however, I bought my very first bicycle! It was wonderfully rickety and completely rusted over. It had the most uncomfortable seat I have ever experienced. Imagine sitting on a giant pencil tip. Now sharpen that pencil; and add a few spikes around the nib. “The Rust Bucket” will always hold a very special place in my heart. (In fact, it is leaning nonchalantly outside the Sorli Discau supermarket on Doctor Trueta, in Poblenou if you want to go and admire it yourself.) True to its name, it has now completely rusted into its own lock and appears welded to the bike stand. It has been there for nearly two years. Anyway, I used to ride the dear old dreadfully uncomfortable Rust Bucket to class every day. It would take two hours there, and two hours back. I was getting quite heavily pregnant by now and the gentle cycle by the sparkling sea was the perfect exercise for my otherwise cumbersome body.
The R.B with my ingenious light: a miner’s light attached with an eye-mask. No one stole it for some reason!
I went back to England and Zimbabwe for Christmas, and didn’t make it back to Barcelona in time for the birth! “Restrictions on travelling after 36 weeks”, in other words, Too Fat to Fly. I ended up having a baby (in a bath, in Bath!) before my next job, in a completely different field.
End of Part One
(Sorry, is that terribly annoying? It’s just now I have quit my job I need to launch my career as some lucrative blogger or at least get the occasional dribble of copywriting. So if you read my next post, then maybe I can count you as a “Follower”. Will you read:
Part 2: Babies, Drones & Dog Stalkers (to be continued)
I would finish it now, but aren’t our attention spans all shot now anyway? I have probably bored you enough for one blog post! Also, I need to pee. Hasta la proxima!
Love PirateNell xxx